Circumlocution or Things He Doesn’t Say
by Syberina5
Summary: You’re totally dying first.


Title: Circumlocution (or Things He Doesn't Say) Author: Syberina5 or tsarcasm

Word Count: 423; Complete

Summary: _You're totally dying first._

Disclaimer: I don't own either of the television shows referenced here and they most definitely do not own each other.

Dedication: wouldbedorothy is a goddess of betay-goodness. I owe her brownie and cookie batter and possibly my first born when it's of age for slave labor. There is no way, ever, to make up to her what she did for me on this piece. _Ever_ [is astonished April didn't kill her].

Author's Notes: A short and standalone in the FanBoy 'Verse. This tiny little thing has been through a lot. A lot. I restrained myself like hell to keep from spelling out what I saw going on here [is exceedingly proud of crazy self]. And if it weren't for April I would have murdered it. As it turned out I'm happy with it. I love it like a squishy thing. I love April like a squishy thing, too. Other possible titles were: My Life would Suck Without You, Popcorn as a Celebration of Life, Circumlocution (Snatch it from the jaws of FanBoy and make it Superpowers: Circumlocution in Block of Wood), Fandom Flunk Out, Fandom Fail, or Thank You Orville. There is a distinct possibility that there are two stories here in this one piece and there's no telling which you'll get before you start reading, though people with some background knowledge of the fandom being referenced here have a predisposition for the first. Story A is wrenching and painful and sweet and readers should try to remember that there is a "hug" waiting for them at the end. Story B is funny and adorable; there's a deleted scene of crack I might be convinced to put up later for these readers.

"I wouldn't be caught dead in Marc Jacobs," Brian said as the boy on screen started to strip off his purple jacket.

"I should write that down," Justin—tucked under his arm, against his chest—said around the handful of popcorn he was systematically shoving into his mouth.

"What?" He watched with terrible awe the amount wedging itself between Justin's lips.

Justin stared at the high school drama unfolding safely under the shiny television surface, inhaling the exploded kernels.

"_Do not bury Brian in Marc Jacobs_," he mumbled around the food—bits of it crumbling out of his mouth to land on Brain's shirt leaving grease stains no doubt before Justin would notice them and brush them away. "I should take note. Don't want to forget; accidentally pick a contraband suit." He snorted. "God, you'd probably rise from the dead and bitch through the whole service. 'Sunshine, you fucking twat, get over here. What the hell am I wearing? Don't even try to blame this monstrosity on Debbie.'" Brian wasn't exactly offended by the spitting, scrunch-faced impression the boy was doing. Fear was good.

"What makes you think you'll even be there?" He stared into the screen, into the bright Hollywood versions of teenagers fucking up their lives, seeing other, less Technicolor, colossal fuck ups.

"Please, you're older than me by over a decade, Brian. And a stress-ball with a terrible diet, long term health risks. You're totally dying first." Justin shifted against him, putting the enormous bowl of butter-dripping crunchy puffs on the floor. "Be nice to me," his voice moved against Brian's skin, "or I'll let Emmet plan your funeral." Brian sucked in a breath as Justin's nose grazed his neck, his chin, forcing Brian's head back, exposing him. "Can't you just see it?" The blonde sinking down and Brian had to watch him move lower. "The streamers, the floral party favors, the paisley coffin liner. Oh," he gasped and his head popped up over Brian's half done fly, "the show tune hymns—_ohh_," his eyes wide, his mouth an O, "—or Babs." Brian groaned at the slide of his clothes and Justin's hands over his flesh, at the anticipation of Justin's mouth following suit.

And then it was; open with teeth and tongue and heat and pressure.

And then it wasn't.

"Sequined mourners' armbands."

Brian lunged, tackling him, pinning him to the far end of the couch, latching their lips together and Justin giggled. Brian fought a smile with another groan—equal parts carnage, carnal, and blind, relieved, gratitude.


End file.
